


Flesh that hates

by Superperson00



Series: New Perspective [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:48:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25738312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superperson00/pseuds/Superperson00
Summary: All that were left anymore were consumers and destroyers.There used to be creators, but they had all ran away.
Series: New Perspective [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857406
Kudos: 1





	Flesh that hates

The sky darkens with incoming nimbostrati. Early squalls of drizzle and wet pelt against the glass walls of the city he calls home.

A storm is brewing, and Muk is galvanised for it.

When it rains, he does not feel afraid to wander the tarmacadam streets. The water soothes the asphalt before he can corrode it, washing away his pernicious toxins into the divets that line the roads.

He is not here to blemish this place. He is here to learn.

Raindrops pelt against the transparent shop displays, disfiguring the vivid graphics and mannequins that lie within. They stare at him with eyes that do not see, and he pities them. Each fibreglass figure has been painstakingly shaped, bodies warped and squeezed to unrealistic proportions in the impossible pursuit of beauty.

These false people are the closest approximation to perfection, and they spend their days trapped in cages, purposed for nothing more than enticement like the Sirens of old.

His skin is poison, his touch malevolent, but he is more alive than any of them.

Muk knows he is alive, even if many would contest such a testament. He can feel each raindrop that hits his face, inhale the wet smell of petrichor that grows with the storm. He can think.

He spends a lot of his time thinking.

His species is biohazardous in its nature, structured with the singular purpose of destruction. He cannot be ‘fixed’, in any sense of the word – How do you purify one of a pestilence when the subject to be saved is the sickness?

No, his birthright is a cycle of self-destructive hate and corruption, destined to take all he can and desecrate what he cannot.

But people did that anyway. The squabbles of man have torn scars across the lands, gouging the natural balance for their own self sustenance. The only difference between he and them was that the humans were born with the gift to do good, and they squandered it anyway.

All that were left anymore were consumers and destroyers. 

There used to be creators, but they had all ran away.

Muk looks up at the ivory towers of the humans and thinks of what he would give to have been blessed with the same opportunity as them.

A crack of thunder booms in the distance, loud and stentorian. Misty haze burgeons as the downpour grows stronger, encompassing the tops of the highest skyscrapers.

Was he really born without even the opportunity to do good? Muk shuts his eyes, letting the rain wash over him. He is built to be a blight on the surface of the Earth, bound by the givers of life to spread hate and vengeance. The outcome of the battle between nature and nurture had been decided for him before he was even an embryo.

How are you supposed to live with yourself with the knowledge that you were born to be the villain?

He catches sight of his reflection against doors barricaded shut for the night. Tears of phenacetin are leaking from his eyes, almost hidden amidst the rivulets of rain that shower him.

An amalgam of emotions rush by. Disgust. Shame. Pity. He loathes the body he is trapped in, he is envious of the millions upon millions of others that tarnish the world with hands that could save it. He wants to do good, and in punishment for it he is eternally confined to flesh that hates.

He cries out to a city of deaf ears.

Why? What did he do to deserve this fate? Why did he have to be born with a prison of skin?

His only response is the deafening silence of the rain.

And eventually, Muk perambulates the cold, wet streets of the city once more.

He has never believed in a higher power - How could he, when he is a living abomination to nature? But tonight, his path takes him to the steeples of an old, beaten-down church, and he cannot help but stop and wonder.

God is meant to be all-powerful, all-knowing, but he cannot understand how such a notion can hold water.

If God really _is_ omnipotent, the Creator of All, could He create an object that He could not destroy?

Such a question had paradoxical reverberations. If God could create something indestructible even to Him, such a feat would indicate a finite threshold to His destructive capabilities, nullifying his supposed omnipotence. But if He could truly destroy anything He could construct, He would have a limit to His powers of creation.

No, he decides, God could not be real. At the very least, God was not the penultimate power His followers deemed Him to be.

(And besides, he thinks, if God is some omnibenevolent deity of providence, the One True Good, what reason could possibly justify that let Muk and the rest of his kind to be born?)

But tonight, something calls him closer to draw himself closer to the church. He lets himself climb the beaten stone steps, settling in front of old wooden doors that the humans would never let him reach had they been present.

He wants to understand. Why is he here? Why is he like this? Why, for the sake of everything just and fair in the world, mustn’t he be given the tools to succeed, like everyone else?

Muk does not believe, but tonight he is desperate enough for answers to hunch over and pray.

He stays there until the rain dies down to a gentle patter and the first rays of light start to peek over the horizon.

And finally, just as he begins to think he has wasted the remaining few hours he had left, a thought comes, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind.

_Success does not come from those who do not struggle._

It could have been something he’d once read, or once heard. It could have come from anywhere.

But it makes him think, and as he begins to head home, he decides that he’s satisfied with what he’s found.

Tonight, Muk has learnt faith.


End file.
